


Red Skies, Red Trees

by EldritchEyes



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:06:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchEyes/pseuds/EldritchEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next time on the investigation...<br/>A Kvatch Guardsman, out of his league. An FBI Special Agent, lost in a new world. Together their fates intertwine in the capricious seas of destiny, against a backdrop of red skies, and red trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Skies, Red Trees

The somber gray skies hung low over Cyrodiil, the soft pitter patter of rain a refreshing song. Kvatch Guardsman Langor Lacand almost didn’t mind being forced to go on this damned hike. Almost being the key word. Langor muttered under his breath, the walk having given his feet blisters. Damn that old man, he wouldn’t have bothered coming out here if the dirt farmer hadn’t threatened to run around naked. If there was one thing Kvatch didn’t need, it was another naked old man running around, this one a farmer. The city guard had sent him beyond the walls of the city and down the slope to assist an old farmer with ridding his field of “‘ORRID R’D TRAYS!”. The city had, at first, simply attempted to ignore the man, and for a time this had been met with some modicum of success, but then the old man came to Kvatch and began making… old man noises at passerby. And then he began stripping down to his undergarments in front of the chapel, and threatening to reveal all unless the city would send someone to help with the “TURAYS”. Suffice to say, this warranted action as prompt as it was terrified, and they had sent Langor to waste his time with a possibly insane old farmer. Langor sighed, recalling how he drew the short straw that night. Just his luck.

As he began to ponder if he could run into the wild and live a life of solitude (without naked old men), he saw the modest little farmhouse pop up like a little toadstool on the horizon. Langor quickened his pace. The sooner he was back in Kvatch, the better. But the closer he travelled across the ground, the sooner he saw that something was certainly far more amiss than simple invasive “T(u)rays”. In fact, this situation could not have been more singularly perplexing nor off putting. The previously charming countryside, once green and lush, once full of life and natural wonder that could take hours to fully appreciate, was now dark and fell. The ground had become a muddy quagmire, choked by terrible little brambles, black as pitch. It was pierced by stark parodies of trees, ominous and thoroughly ugly. His legs were bitten at by some kind of purple fog, which swirled around his ankles, rather than vanishing in the distance as fog is wont to do. And the sky had been replaced. Rather than the gloom and dreariness of the seemingly sobbing sky, the heavens had become a swirling maelstrom; a sinister pattern of yellow and black adorning the twisting sky.

Langor was never a poet, and a quick “Ughbuh!” was all that he could muster at this surreal sight. He stumbled back for a moment, wondering if he simply should leave the old man to this evil place, before realizing how absolutely heartless that sounded. He had to at least check on him first. Langor’s boots felt as if they could sink into the abysmal darkness of the murk at any misplaced step, and he became increasingly concerned that perhaps there was some kind of monster waiting for him to look backwards so it could make a well-timed jump at him, thoroughly scaring all involved. With this in mind, he made sure to keep an ear out on the walk. He reached the now dilapidated farmhouse without much incident, besides a moment where he thought he saw a Goblin on a horse in a formation of brambles. 

The farm, obviously, took on a darker character than the average example of its kind. The house had taken to leaning in an almost ridiculous fashion to the side, and the roof had such a pronounced curve downwards it was almost as if the whole thing had horns. Red ivy clung to the building like some kind of parasite, and the previously fertile land had been reduced to ashen dust. Langor had now grown accustomed to this new environ, and regarded it with a bit of curiosity. He unsheathed his sword as he briskly walked to the door, putting on the stoniest face he could muster. He prepared to use his “official business” tone, which he was taught to use when he was terrified, though it didn’t do much to make him intimidating, and made him sound rather constipated. As he knocked on the door, he couldn’t help but feel silly at the thought of some horrible hellspawn hearing his ginger knocking, and politely answering the door, welcoming him, and sitting down as they talked the problem through. Foregoing manners, he opened the door and asked,

“Hello? Is anyone here? This is the Kvatch Guard, I’m coming in!”  
His nasally voice echoed impotently through the dark building. It was a mess, chairs tipped over, a table flipped, calipers strewn about the place, the folded cloth was unfolded in a hasty manner, a window was left ajar, it was a catastrophe. The floorboards creaked as he stepped in, as if laughing at him. He already hated these floorboards. He looked about a bit further, tearing his eyes from the copious collection of calliper carnage. The fire in the heart had been snuffed out recently, there was a dead old man in the middle of the room, and a bottle of wine had been tipped over but not shattered. Wait a moment. The a dead old man. That’s not right. Langor stared, wide eyed, in horror. That old man was quite certainly dead. He was awkwardly splayed about on the floor, pasty, with a bruise on his head, and incredibly naked. Langor looked away out of even more horror at the sight of the corpse buttox, and quickly evacuated the premises, knocking over a dresser on his way out.

Of course, no one could have predicted what was going to happen next, not even the Ancestor Moth Priests with their Elder Scrolls. Well, maybe them. But they would be off put and terribly confused! As Langor hastily made his way from the demonic farm, two bright lights popped up on the horizon, along with a faint rumbling sound. Langor saw this and was terrified. He jumped back. The lights grew rapidly ever closer, as the sound grew in volume, and then Langor saw that the lights were… By the Nine! The lights were eyes. Some long, boxy thing without legs was quickly roaring its way down the path, what sort of beast was this? And just as suddenly, a red figure was in the middle of its path, a hefty axe in one hand. Langor saw that this thing would mow him down, and rushed to save the red man. But just as Langor had come within arm’s reach of the figure, it vanished in a blink. He was now right in the path of some horrid metal creature moving at an insanely high velocity. Just his luck.

But, as the hour of his doom seemed nigh, it swerved quickly out of his path and into the farmhouse with a mighty crash. Langor turned to observe the new scene before him. A flimsy metal inscription on the back of the thing read “YZ1NDRFL”, as two red eyes from the back of the creature stared at him. It has broken through the wall of the farm entirely, and appeared to be on fire. This was troubling. Just as Langor thought the situation had reached it’s peak insanity, a man kicked open a side opening of the monster, and jumped out. This new figure was out of place. He was wearing strange black garb, with a red strip of cloth flapping from the neck, like a noose. A stumpy sheath was on his belt, with a bent, think hilt sticking out of it. The man reached into his pocket and retrieved a rectangular piece of metal which he clicked open and used to lite a small, white object which he stuck into his mouth. His hair was close cut, and he was cleanshaven. An old, healed scar adorned his temple, and a more recent one was on his cheek. He appeared to say something to himself under his breath, and looked down. Langor was then absolutely floored when he saw the dead old farmer stand up, and run, yelling and ranting, out of the farm. The new man made chase after him.

“IS THAY RAY’D TURAYS! IS ALL THE DAEDRAY WORSHIPE THAT THIS FOLK BEEN DONE’N!” Screeched the old man, flecks of spittle flying off his wizened mouth and into Langor’s face.  
Langor stared blankly at the resurrected old farmer, blinking the saliva from his eyes. The other man quickly caught up, seemingly utterly unfazed by the chaos around him, in stark contrast to Langor.  
“Zach. I must admit, I’m at a loss for what’s going on here,” he muttered under his breath, putting a finger up to his temple, “let’s ask this man.” 

Langor stared at him, realizing then that he was the only sane person there.


End file.
